The Lonely Furrow
Page 20
‘You are rejecting me?’
‘Not I. Circumstances.’
Since Henry had proved so unsympathetic to her plan she had confided in David, telling him that she could doubtless arrange to take him since Clevely sounded the kind of place where a handy man would be welcome and useful. He’d looked glum but made no protest. She had hastened to explain that it would make little difference to him; he would not be bound by the convent’s rules, he would simply be doing much the same work in a different place.
He was cleaning out the stable when she arrived home and limped forward to take the mule. He still looked glum but there was a question in his glance. She could not bring herself to tell him that she had been rejected; nor, in her present mood, could she tell a downright lie. So she said, ‘My plans are somewhat changed.’
On the way home she had thought of Lamarsh, and might have ridden there, but it lay in the other direction and the days were short now. Tomorrow!
She had also thought that perhaps in the very rejection God had given fresh evidence of His will and power. The poverty of the place had not dismayed her but she had not cared for Dame Isabel. Something in her manner, her voice, her glance. And a good nun must consider herself utterly subject to her superiors.
The glum look vanished from the man’s face and was replaced by an expression not easy to name.
‘There’re other ways of serving God, madam,’ he said across the mule’s neck.
‘I wish I knew one,’ she said rather bitterly, for on the last stage of her journey it had occurred to her that at Lamarsh—or any other religious house—there might be a Dame Isabel or even worse. In fact the impulse was already weakening, as two such different people as Henry Tallboys and Dame Isabel had foreseen.
‘I could tell you one,’ David said, half shy, half eager.
‘It is too cold to stand and talk here,’ she said. ‘When you are finished here, come into the hall.’
It was a cold day and ordinarily, on such a day, after such a ride she would have taken a glass of mulled wine; but since her miraculous rescue she had abjured such luxuries, had even eaten sparingly, denying herself, preparing herself for further privations.
Now she was tempted; but she resisted the temptation, for although her nature was not all of one piece, soft volatile layers as it were alternating with more solid ones, on the whole she did not lack determination.
Warming herself by the fire, she was still determined to leave Intake, partly because of what had happened—though she had forgiven the people concerned; and partly because now, she was uncomfortable in Henry’s presence. Those deliberately planned attempts at enticement she now saw for what they were, shaming and shabby. Thank God he had been so blind!
David came in, washed and changed into the clothes he wore when waiting at table. From the time when he had first begun the outdoor work which had restored his manhood and his self-esteem, he had been meticulous about not bringing the odours of stable, byre and sty into this part of the house. Master Tallboys was not so particular; he’d wash his hands and if his boots were very muddied or muckied, drop them at the kitchen door. For other fripperies he had no time—which was understandable.
Aware of his lameness, Mistress Captoft said, ‘Sit down, David. I don’t know what you have to say but I warn you. Little acts of charity, bread and broth for beggars and washing pilgrims’ feet—that was not what I had in mind.’
‘Nor I, madam. What I had in mind was a great enterprise.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘What?’
‘Something new. So far as I know nobody ever gave a thought to poor sea-faring men. And I don’t mean cripples like me. I mean…’ he began humbly, diffidently, fumbling for words, but he warmed to his subject and began to speak with passionate emphasis.
‘Say a ship out of Lowestoft or Yarmouth or any other place further north, is forced to put in at Bywater and glad to be. Maybe a short time—just a wait on the weather, or a long—while she’s being tacked together again. There’s no pay till they’re back in the home port. There’s only pay when she puts in where she started from. Waiting men are in poor case. Take the others, out from Bywater, back in Bywater and paid off. Where do they go meantime? Oh, I know the inn sign, Welcome To Mariners, but the ordinary chap ain’t welcome there. So it’s the Lanes, low down ale houses and bad houses for him! In my time I’ve seen some good men ruined that way. And there’s some like me, not so crippled and not so lucky. As I was, thanks to you, madam. Ones with smaller injuries or sick; chucked out to live or die. Beggars get broth, pilgrims get their feet washed but I never knew anything done for the poor ordinary sailor.’
‘Nor did I. Though I lived for a time in Dunwich.’ She brooded. Dunwich seemed a long way, and a lifetime, away. ‘Sometimes,’ David said, ‘there’s a prize money. And I always thought that if I was lucky that way, I’d get hold of a house somehow and throw it open to all. I mean sailors. But I never had a stroke of luck till that day I fell in with you madam. So I never could, But you could. And it wouldn’t be all out-go. There’s them that could pay, and glad to, for a decent meal and a clean bed. And I’d work like a galley slave.’
The seed fell upon fertile ground, rooted, sprouted, grew tall and branched out, like the grain of mustard seed in the parable. Far, far more useful, she thought, than immuring herself in a convent where her gift for management would be lost, subject to somebody else’s managing will, and her money absorbed into some general fund over which she would have no control at all.
‘It is worth thinking about,’ she said. David knew the tone of dismissal, got up and went away and Mistress Captoft went straight to the cupboard and poured herself a glass of wine. And very heartening, after four days’ self-imposed abstinence.
Sipping the wine with relish, she thought of the other rules which she could now relax. She could wear her gay dresses, her trinkets, her becoming head-dresses. And still be doing God’s work by providing a service to mankind, a thing no-one else had ever thought of. Behind it all she could see clearly the hand of God at work. That drastic purge which inspired such gratitude in Old Hodgson; the terrible experience which had brought her to her senses and made her anxious to serve God in a positive way; her rejection at Clevely and now the moment of true illumination brought about by a serving man whom she had saved from starvation. It all wove together, making a neat and pleasing pattern.
And think of the gratitude those poor men would feel. Consider David, so grateful that he had been willing to go with her to Clevely, little as the idea had appealed to him. Her volatile, impulsive mind looked into the future and she saw herself, busy, managing, competent, imposing a firm but gentle rule on dozens of men, all like David, all deeply grateful, all calling her Madam. And, as she had once thought of Amsterdam, she now thought of Bywater and tasted in anticipation the joy of living in a town again; of being able to look out of a window and see something going on; of being able to shop every day. She thought of the house she would need, a big house, in one of the larger streets or, better still, on the quay itself. She had no doubt, in her secret heart, that it was there, just waiting for her.
Henry had also taken a ride that morning and, as he expected, sitting in the saddle was extremely painful. Fortunately he had only to go to Muchanger, where a man named Walker had much the same name for breeding dogs as Tom Thoroughgood had for horses.
Ordinary dogs were, of course, obtainable anywhere, especially in the market—but there you might get a stolen dog, a stray dog, a dog spoiled by pampering or by ill-usage. Henry wanted a properly trained guard dog, for what Mistress Captoft had said about sly retaliation by the maiming of animals had been sound good sense. The Walker guard dogs were well-known, a careful cross, stabilised over the years, between hunting hound and mastiff with the virtues of both breeds. It was said that Dick Walker was so knowledgeable that one glance at a litter of puppies could tell him which were worth rearing and which not and his training was so painstaking and patient that by the time he had fi
nished with it any dog of his could tell friend from foe, and both from neutral, simply by scent.
‘You caught me at a bad moment, Master Tallboys,’ Walker said, when Henry had given his name and stated his errand. ‘I got puppies of course, useless at the moment, and one, nearly a year old… Should be just right but I ain’t sure whether I oughta sell him. He’s slow. Not on his feet, I don’t mean. Slow to learn. I allus reckon about eight months. But this ’un fared a bit slow. I don’t really know why I bothered with him except that he’s a handsome dog and got the makings—given time.’
‘May I see him?’
The dog produced was handsome; physically the perfect cross between the litheness of the hunting hound and the solidity of the mastiff; coat neither rough nor smooth, just ruffled and brindled in colour, grey, dark and almost russet hairs blending happily. Eyes of clear amber which took on a greenish hue at the sight of Henry, the stranger.
‘ ’S’all right. Friend,’ Walker said. ‘Well, if you like, sir, I’ll show you how far he’s got, then you can decide for yourself.’
He began to remove his own sheepskin jacket, thought better of it. ‘No, that wouldn’t be a fair test. He know my scent. If you’d put yours down, just there. Now we’ll see… You! Guard.’ The dog obeyed, sniffing the coat cautiously and then standing by it.
‘Now,’ Walker said, ‘try to take it.’ Henry attempted to do so and was confronted by a mask of sheer hatred; eyes green as grass, muzzle wrinkled back showing sharp fangs.
Walker said in the rather worn voice of one who has said the same things many times and must say it again, ‘’S’all right. Give over!’ The dog again obeyed and Henry retrieved and thankfully donned his coat. The wind was even colder today.
‘I reckon,’ Walker said, ‘I was right about him, after all. He got the makings. You want him? Mind, no pampering. And best that one person do the feeding. Then show him what you want guarded; beat your bounds, as they say, and I reckon he’ll do. I’ll get a collar for him.’ He always sent his dogs out into the world equipped with collars; for dog often fought with dog and they always went for the throat. He produced a band of leather, three inches wide and set all over with sharp steel spikes. Naturally there was a charge for collars too. And for the bit of rope to be attached to the ring of the collar in order to lead the dog home. All in all, Henry reflected he had been a bit extravagant.
Godfrey was waiting in the yard.
‘For me, Father?’ The perfect reward for having been brave, even when his nose was pulled back into shape and the loose tooth tweaked away.
Dismounting painfully, Henry said, ‘Yes. If you feed him. But remember, he’s not a pet. He’s a guard dog.’
‘I’ll call him Guard,’ Godfrey said. The attraction between the boy and the young dog was mutual, immediate, irrevocable.
Mistress Captoft did not really approve of dogs in the house. Her husband had had six, all of careless habits, but about Guard she was lenient. No concern of hers, after all, she would soon be gone. And Henry, seeing that the purpose of that painful ride was about to be defeated, was lenient, too. Poor little boy, no brothers or sisters, no friends; his mother dead, Joanna, of whom he had been fond, gone away, and Mistress Captoft about to go. Only Father would be left and Father was a busy man. So, if the boy wanted to share his supper with the dog—giving him, Henry noticed, all the choicest pieces, did it matter so much?
‘I have changed my plans, Master Tallboys,’ Mistress Captoft said. Once again she could not bring herself to say that she had been rejected at Clevely. Instead she spoke, enthusiastically about what she intended to do.
‘So tomorrow,’ she said, ‘I must go down to Bywater and find a house.’ Then, suddenly she clapped her plump white hand, now with all the rings back in place, to her mouth.
‘Dear me,’ she said, ‘what with this and that, I forgot. While you were away, Master Tallboys, a messenger from the Bishop arrived. His Grace wishes to consult with you and hopes you will go to see him as soon as is possible and convenient. I gathered that the matter is urgent.’
Another and a longer ride tomorrow, Henry thought, pain stabbing at the thought, though he sat comfortable now, a cushion under him. Well, it must be faced. And he should be better tomorrow. The fight had taken place on Thursday; tomorrow would be Tuesday. All his other hurts were practically forgotten, even the deep split in his eyebrow healing fast. Only the invisible wound ached on. It was not better on Tuesday and he was quite glad that, riding to Bywater in Mistress Captoft’s company, he was obliged to match the pace of his horse to that of her mule.
In the yard of the inn, with its deceptive name, Henry said, ‘I hope you find a house to suit you, Mistress Captoft.’
‘I am sure I shall,’ she said, and went off, as confident and light-footed as a girl keeping tryst with a sweetheart. Moving less easily, Henry went up the slight incline towards the building which was beginning to justify the name of palace.
The Bishop liked Henry; an honest man if ever there was one; a man with dignity, too.
‘It was good of you to come so soon,’ he said. ‘You have had an accident?’
‘Oh, this?’ Henry said, touching the half-healed wound over his eye. ‘A mere nothing, Your Grace.’
‘I only hope that the matter upon which we must consult is a mere nothing too.’
‘It concerns the girl? Joanna?’
‘Yes. I thought it unnecessary to trouble you when Lady Grey first wrote to me. From the first a suitable marriage was the objective, was it not? And when I heard what Lady Grey had achieved, I thought she had done admirably—for a demoiselle of only moderate fortune and no family. A chance in a thousand. Or so I thought. I wrote to congratulate Lady Grey upon her good management; and Lord Shefton upon his good fortune. Now,’ His Grace’s voice became acidulous, ‘I receive this!’ He tapped his long, oval, cleric’s nails on the last communication, a slightly frantic one, which Lady Grey had sent him.
‘Give me the gist of it, my Lord.’
It was difficult, in Henry Tallboys’ presence, to remember that he fell, as the saying was, between two stools. He was completely illiterate, like a peasant; yet he had the manner and speech of a nobleman or a knight—and there were many of them still—who, illiterate themselves, always had a clerk at their heels.
‘The gist of it is that the girl refuses, pleading a previous betrothal. If true, a valid plea. But I knew nothing of it. Did you?’
Henry thought of that makeshift, haphazard, unwitnessed promise, made over the kitchen table.
‘Lord Shefton, you say? Is he known to you, my Lord?’
Claiming rather more than he should—for the truth was that Lord Shefton had no friends; he had sycophants, political and business associates, a vast circle of acquaintances but no friend, His Grace said, ‘Yes, Master Tallboys; Lord Shefton is a friend of mine. Indeed it was through him that I secured a place for the girl in Sir Barnabas Grey’s household…’
And now, if what she says is true, made a fool of myself.
Henry sat, looking stolid while his mind spun. It was exactly what he had always wanted for Joanna; another, more comfortable way of life and a suitable marriage. She’d been gone for two years. She must, by this time, have outgrown that silly, childish infatuation for him… Living in a wider world, she must realise that a few hasty words across a kitchen table did not constitute a betrothal and if she had fallen back upon it as an excuse for avoiding marriage to another man, it must have been in desperation.
‘Be so good, my Lord, as to tell me something of this Lord… Shefton.’
Quite unconsciously Henry, who had come here to be questioned, had taken control. He had, from both his parents, inherited a dominant streak. Most of Sir Godfrey’s friends in the past had thought him feckless, improvident, practically simple-minded, but when he spoke they had listened: Sybilla’s friends had pitied her, poor, for years without a roof of her own and four children; not a penny to spend; but when she gave an old head-dress a new
twist or altered an old gown, others had instantly, anxiously copied.
‘He is immensely rich,’ the Bishop said. He elaborated on that. ‘Extremely powerful too. He has the King’s ear—or rather the ear of those to whom the King gives heed. And as regards this marriage—that is when it was promulgated—generous beyond belief.’
‘Of what age?’ Henry asked, brushing wealth, power and generosity aside.
‘Not young,’ the Bishop said.
‘That tells me nothing. How old?’
The irritation which His Grace had felt ever since he had read Lady Grey’s letter—which made such mockery of the two he had written—rose to the surface.
‘Really, Master Tallboys! One cannot go about among friends, looking at teeth, as with horses!’
‘I know,’ Henry said. ‘But with friends you can gauge within a year or two, surely. Is he about your age? Older? Younger?’
His Grace could have chosen any answer, since Master Tallboys and Lord Shefton were unlikely ever to meet, but there was something about the directness of the question and the straight blue stare, and about his own feeling of suppressed irritation, that made him tell the truth.
‘Older,’ he said shortly.
‘By how much?’
‘Really, Master Tallboys,’ His Grace said again. ‘How could I know? Five years, possibly six.’
‘I see.’
To Henry the Bishop had always seemed old and now looking across the table, seeing the jowls under the jaw, the folds below the eyes, the brown blotches on the plump hands, the paunch, he thought: Add five years to that and it’s easy to see why the poor child was desperate; they must all be out of their minds!